Mary RussellSherlock Holmes: Fond Goodbyes, part 1
by Ruahnna
Summary: Mary is going away to do some research, but trouble is sure to find both her and her husband. At the very least, they could have a warm goodbye...


Fond Goodbyes: Chapter 1

"The game's afoot, Holmes," I whispered into a well-shaped ear half-obscured by an eiderdown quilt. The eiderdown quilt emitted a grumpf of noise and ignored me.

Uncle John would have you believe that the great Sherlock Holmes (ahem) opens his eyes instantly at the first sign of dawn and springs into action. He _believes_ this because he, for many years, shared rooms with Holmes on Baker Street.

He did _not_, however, share a bed with the man. As the first and only wife of the celebrated Mr. Holmes, I can attest that dear Uncle John is as generous in his praise as in anything else—and as foggy in his interpretation of facts.

I tried again, burrowing under Holmes outstretched arm.

"Holmes," I said patiently. (At least, I _tried_ to be patient—or I meant to be.)

"Russell," Holmes said foggily, his voice clouded with slumber. "I'm too old to keep these kinds of hours." His tone was reproachful, as though _I_ were the one who had insisted we go to the local inn for dinner and some gay conviviality the previous night. That _had_ certainly suited me more than the trappings of a fine dinner in town, and Holmes really _does_ dance a lovely jig.

"It's not hours I'm interested in, Holmes," I said archly, and he let out a short bark of laughter.

"Thank goodness for _that_!' he said, running a hand over his face and opening his eyes to look at me.

It is an interesting view, to see someone from the vantage point of laying beside them. Things are more leveled out—putting everyone on more equal footing, or bedding.

"The great leveler, eh, Russell?" he said, almost divining my thought as he was often wont to do. He yawned hugely, and I felt a twinge of guilt for waking him. But just a twinge.

"My train, Holmes," I nudged. I felt and heard his body slump.

"Oh God, yes. Your conference."

"Yes," I repeated, smiling. "And I must be up and dressed and at the train station in an hour and a half."

I knew—I _knew_—that he was contemplating a cheery "godspeed" and rolling over to go back to sleep, so I decided to take matters into my own hands. I had already wriggled into his arms, and it was a short step (or roll, perhaps) to cover his sleep-warmed body with my own.

Holmes answered my forward kiss with every sign of patience indulgence, but when the kiss ended and I opened my eyes, he was looking at me with the usual keen interest he gave to troubling enigmas. My mood had been teasing and playful, but his expression was in earnest, and he tangled one hand in my sleep-tousled tresses and drew my mouth down to his.

I had been fortunate enough to learn the art of kissing in the more misspent periods of my youth, but I could find myself pleasantly overmatched by my husband. Uncle John would have you believe Holmes quite the thinking machine, devoid of human passion. Again, let me point out that living in _close_ proximity to someone and living in _intimate_ proximity are quite often very different perspectives.

I was currently in _quite_ intimate proximity to my spouse, and I heartily approved of the arrangement. Using Holmes' methods of deduction, it seemed safe to say that he rather approved of the arrangement as well. I was beginning to regret the length of my trip to town, but it looked likely that I might get a proper send-off.

"I won't be gone long," I murmured, more to reassure myself than Holmes. He seemed deep in concentration as he let his lips trail along my jaw, then slip down to the hollow of my collarbone. In spite of myself, I let out a sharp gasp of pleasure, and heard Holmes chuckle, pleased with his success. I felt myself flush with desire and indignation. _I_ had _started_ this and I did not intend to be so easily hoist on my own petard—or anyone else's!

I have never been voluptuous. My frame tends toward tall and spare, but I have discovered that an excess of something is not necessary if you know how to use the amount you already have. I relaxed my body against his, and the sharp outline of his body became more pronounced against mine. My hands had been resting on his chest, but I used them now to unbutton the top of his pajamas. Holmes allowed it, watching me through half-closed eyelids—a sure sign of his contentment.

But I was not interested in contentment. I wanted _abandon_.

I bent and pressed my lips to the curls of salt-and-pepper hair so enticingly revealed by the deep V of his pajama top and then let my tongue flick against his skin. Holmes gave a grunt of surprise that was almost a moan and I smiled. Holmes seemed mildly piqued over my amusement, but his eyes glittered with intent.

"Russell…" he chided, his tone lazy, but the next moment found our positions reversed and he was cupping my face and my curves while he pressed slow, searching kisses on my mouth. Too old, my hindquarters!

It was on the tip of my tongue to berate him for so bald-face a lie, but there were other things more pressing on the tip of my tongue. I held my peace as closely as my husband and lover held me.

I had run for a great many trains, but found it incongruous to do so wearing petticoats and ladies shoes. I had often pleaded with Holmes to let me wear my regular shoes beneath the folds of my dresses, and I think he would have let me, too, but the disappointed face of Mrs. Hudson always swam into view, and I cursed my luck and shoe hooks in the same breath, killing two birds with one stone.

Holmes walked me to the station, but only because he was walking to the village anyway. Our walk was quiet, but there was something pleasant that hummed between us as we strolled with long strides down the lane. At one point, the cooing whoo whoo of an owl stopped up in our tracks until we had located the impressive old bird perched unmoving in the budding branches of a nearby tree, and when we resumed our walk I found that Holmes had taken my hand and tucked it under the crook of his elbow.

This little show of domesticity moved me almost as much as our good-byes this morning had done, and filled me with melancholy. I had been looking forward to this trip, but now I was beginning to think of it as a necessary evil.

Holmes had used his influence in the mildest of ways, prevailing upon a friend of an acquaintance of a gentleman he had once solved a matter of some 100 pounds for. The man expressed himself delighted to be of assistance, and appropriate letters changed hands, establishing my bona fides. That the welcome of my ingress was due to marriage and not because of the import of the research I was doing still rankled, but Holmes had been kind about it.

"Take your facts where you find them, Russell," he had insisted, "but above all, take them."

I had swallowed _my own_ pettiness and pride instead of _theirs_ and the small victory was gravely approved by Holmes.

I found my seat on the train and looked out. Holmes had said he had errands in the apothecary shop in the village, but he stood on the platform and watched my train leave. I smiled at him through the dingy window as the train began to move out, but bravely resisted the urge to trail a scrap of linen embroidered with my initial out the window. As if reading my thoughts, which he often seemed to, I saw Holmes' dark eyes catch suddenly with mischief and the corner of his mouth twitched into a smile.

I could still feel the shape of that sardonic mouth over mine as we had bantered and traded hasty kisses in the aftermath of our leave-taking this morning. The grit from the dusty roads blew back into the window, and I hastily removed my spectacles and wiped them with a soft cloth. By chance, I had grabbed up one of Holmes' handkerchief instead of my own—a long-time habit caused by wearing male dress on frequent occasions. I used it to wipe my glasses, then my eyes, which must have been irritated by the dust and seemed damp. Then I put my spectacles back on and set my face toward London.


End file.
